Big Blue Eyes
by SilentProtagonist000
Summary: Kyle Broflovski has graduated from Harvard medical school with his doctorate and is offered a job in hospice care back home in South Park. One of his patients is his childhood friend, Stan Marsh, who has early-onset Alzheimer's disease and Parkinson's. Kyle realizes that for the first time, he can't fix his best friend. Style. Rating may go up later. Multichaptered.
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING: This fic is going to be long, and it is going to be a tearjerker.  
**

**I've been working in hospice care for about four years now, and I figured I'd write out some of my life stresses at the moment with this. I plan on it being multichaptered-as for how long it's going to be or when I'll have time to write chapters, I do not know. I'll play it by ear. **

**I do hope you enjoy this. I'll be leaving for Cleveland for a few days on Friday, so don't expect a major update until next week. **

**Please, please, PLEASE leave feedback! I accept all forms-negative, positive, or constructive. **

**Love, **

**-Silent-Protagonist**

()()()

_Not long ago._

Kyle couldn't stand it anymore. By the time he'd been going there every afternoon for the past six months, he thought he was going to burn down the fucking nursing home, he swore to God. If there was one thing he couldn't stand in medical school, it was nursing homes. It all seemed pointless to him—locking a mass of equally deteriorating people into one building and hoping staffing issues and neglect didn't cause an incident to occur. To him, it was nothing but a cesspool of bedsores, fall risks, and general unhappiness. He didn't know how anybody lived there. He didn't know how anybody had the gall to put someone there and just leave them alone.

According to the charge nurse on that particular morning, Stan had another pressure ulcer forming on his coccyx. "It's a Stage 3," she told him blandly, absorbed in another patient's chart and refusing to make eye contact. Her legs were crossed, clad in a shade of baby blue scrub pants that Kyle thought was the ugliest pair he'd ever seen. "Apparently it's been there for a while, but none of the staff has seen it. One of your hospice nurses is doing wound care twice a week."

Kyle slammed his hands down on the nurse's station's front desk. "Has nobody been repositioning him?" he demanded. "What kind of joke is this? The whole point of this facility is to keep your residents in good health, and I come to hear my patient has a bed sore? A Stage 3, no less? That means he's been on it for ages without anyone keeping him on his side. What the hell are your nurse aides doing on the floor?"

As he assumed, Kyle's inflammatory remark had pulled a chord—he knew the true trigger of registered nurses, and that was criticizing their authority. The charge nurse's gaze snapped up, her dark eyes boring flaming holes into his skin. Kyle knew what was best, and that was to stand his ground and glare back. "Excuse me, _Doctor Broflovski_, but I think I know what I'm doing here," she hissed. "Don't act like I'm the only nurse on call all the time. It's not my fault."

_Sure it isn't._ Kyle hated not only nursing homes, but sometimes, the people who worked in them. "Then maybe while you're working, you can get the aides to make sure his skin isn't breaking down," he seethed. "Pressure ulcers are a sign of neglect, and you know damn well I'm right."

"Do you know how hard it is to reposition him?" the charge nurse asked. "He's got Parkinson's rigor so badly that none of his limbs will move. The physical therapists have even given up on him. Range of motion exercises do nothing. He's dying, Doctor. There's only so much we can do at this point." She veered her sight back down to the chart, flipping through with a renewed vigor. Kyle, as usual, had gotten nowhere, so he decided to play his trump card.

"You have nice scrubs," he complimented, lying blatantly.

The charge nurse ignored him.

Sniffing, Kyle bent down and grabbed the handle to his rolling bag and turned down the dimly-lit hallway. The nursing home turned off half the lights in the afternoon to save electricity, which Kyle thought was utter bullshit. No wonder this was the second bed sore Stan had gotten in the last six months. Kyle couldn't be by his side all the time, or he would have ensured his joke of a treatment wouldn't have happened. Hindsight was always clear, and the longer Kyle stuck around in palliative care, the longer he wished he'd been a nurse instead. He could be closer to his patients.

He could've been closer to Stan.

Stan Marsh lived at the very end of the north wing of South Park's sole long-term care facility—he was the youngest resident there by at least thirty years. Stacked up against many of his older tenants, he was comparatively worse, too. This dismal thought cast Kyle's vision to the floor, watching the tiles flash by as he walked briskly down the corridor, the wheels of his bag clacking stolidly behind him. He brushed by a nursing assistant who had just emerged from a nearby room with a trash can filled with what smelled like vomit. Stan's neighbor, an elderly woman whose name Kyle couldn't recall, had been having emesis for weeks. When Kyle started seeing Stan, she was always hitting on him.

_What was her name again?_

As usual, Stan's door was wide open. The charge nurses always commanded this in case they needed to reach him quickly to do emergency care. Stan's door was the only one ajar in the entire wing. And as usual, the lights were off and the shades drawn. Without announcing his presence, Kyle stepped over the threshold and into the black room, allowing the darkness to swallow him. As he fumbled at the wall for a light switch, he glanced over in the general direction of Stan's bed. Amongst the inky shade, he saw the outline of a figure scuffle, shifting softly in his sheets.

"Hey, kiddo," he said sofly. "I'm going to turn on a light, okay?" No response. As usual. Kyle turned the light on.

The first thing he saw were Stan's big, round eyes staring at him from the bed, blue and vast as the ocean and his pupils fat. He was like an owl. Kyle knew for a fact that Stan never slept, no matter how much clonazepam the nurses forced into his system. His Parkinson's caused severe spasms that kept him roused for hours. The bags above his cheekbones reflected this. Or maybe it was the loud purr of Stan's oxygen machine, which was kept running on four liters continuously. Four liters was unheard of. Most people were on two, at the very most. Stan had been clinging with four for a while now.

Wheeling his bag to the side of Stan's hospital bed, Kyle pulled up the single guest chair in Stan's barren, desolate room, lacking in everything personal except the white paint that kept the walls startlingly bright. His family never visited him anymore—his parents had died ages ago, and God only knew what happened to his sister. She was always a wreck, even in their childhood. "Do you want your blinds open?" Kyle inquired.

Stan gazed up at him, unresponsive. Kyle knew him well enough, though. There was a silent "yes" communicated between them.

Before sitting down, Kyle threw back the shades, allowing natural sunlight to wash the room in its glow and warmth. For a second, Kyle could have sworn that the corner of Stan's mouth curled up into a ghost of a smile. Yet in spite of the sun, Kyle felt suddenly cold and had to draw his white lab coat around his forest green scrubs. Hurrying back from the window, he plopped down beside his friend and patient with earnest.

"Let's see," he said, rifling in his bag for all the necessary equipment. "I'm going to just do a routine check up on that new bed sore. Is that all right with you?" Kyle didn't wait for an answer. He hadn't gotten one for about three weeks now. But when he turned back to Stan, cloth tape and wet gauze in hand, he saw that Stan looked mildly content. There was no change in expression—he couldn't express his emotions anymore, because they were all but gone, in all scientific definitions of his disease progress—but Kyle could still pretend that Stan was happy, even if his huge-eyed fawning and straight lips never shifted.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Kyle forced a grin and ruffled Stan's black hair. "I'm going to uncover you, so it may be a little chilly for a second." Standing, Kyle pulled back the sheets and tried not to look too hard at Stan's crumpled, malnourished form. His limbs were drawn up to his chest, gnarled with arthritis and unmoving due to his Parkinson's. Rigor was very common in those patients, Kyle had noticed. Various towels were shoved between his extremities to reduce skin damage—the aides had even put washcloths in both of Stan's hands to keep his fingernails from cutting into his palms. The aides weren't dressing him anymore, either. Stan was clad in only a white adult brief, changed only when he soiled himself. Kyle had rallied for him to get an indwelling catheter, but his condition had made inserting one too difficult. There wasn't a stench, so Stan was clean. Kyle was somewhat relieved—he hadn't changed someone's brief since he'd been in high school, taking a nurse aide course.

After snapping on a pair of laytex gloves, Kyle turned him gently to one side and cursed silently at the charge nurse for making up excuses about Stan being too hard to manage for positioning. "I should have that bitch and her nasty-ass scrubs written up," he growled. What unprofessional language, he thought bitterly. Not that he cared when he was around Stan. If he'd had half his mind about him, he was sure his friend would have snickered. "Sorry, Stan." Stan didn't respond, but twitched slightly, as if to reassure Kyle it was fine.

"Yuck," Kyle commented when he saw the large, festering wound on Stan's lower back. The sore was deep and an angry red, the dead skin around it caked in yellow and black pus. Mumbling under his breath, Kyle fished out a paper ruler to measure the diameter of the sore. "Three centimeters in width and one in length," he said. "That's not too big, at least. But you could keep treasure in this one, Stan. The cops would never find it." He dressed the wound quickly and kept Stan on his good side, propping him up with pillows and exposing the dressing to the door. "I'll write an order for a wound vac on this one. Your hospice nurse will have fun with that."

Kyle walked around toward the window, where Stan was now facing, and placed the pulse oximeter on Stan's left index finger. "Breathe deeply for me, now." Kyle saw Stan's chest rise and fall much more noticeably. Kyle swore at anyone who believed Alzheimer's patients understood nothing. _They_ understood nothing.

As the pulse oximeter got a reading, Kyle felt a gentle tug on his lab coat. Stan's grip had slackened on the washcloth bundle and had now latched himself onto Kyle's clothing, holding steadfast, as if he refused to let go. His eyes were locked on Kyle, as if analyzing every freckle on his face and every strand of wild, curly red hair on his head. For a minute, Kyle met his gaze. Unlike the charge nurse, Kyle could stare at Stan forever. Even like this, Stan's face was exactly the same.

Many things changed, but some things never did.

_Beep_. The pulse oximeter blinked. _89._

"Breathe a little more for me, Stan," Kyle said. "It has to be at least 90 for your oxygen level to be okay. Breathe deeper."

Stan's eyes were glassy. They never moved.

_88._


	2. Chapter 2

**EDIT: POSTED THE WRONG DOCUMENT. WHOOPS.**

**Sorry about this; it's kind of a rushed chapter because I'm about five minutes away from having to go to bed in time to get up for my early morning flight. No more updates for four days. Sorry, friends! I'll do my best to get some fresh ideas for this story while I'm away, though! **

**Thank you so much for the four reviews I've received already! I do hope to hear back more from all of you. Guest reviews are enabled, so don't be shy! Drop a line! :)**

**In case anyone wants to know more about my background in hospice, here's a brief summary: I'm seventeen years old and a home health aide at a hospice out where I live. I go to patients' houses and give baths and showers. I became a hospice volunteer when I was fourteen and worked for eight months in a (terrible) nursing home when I was sixteen. Some of the characters to come in this story may be loosely based off residents and patients I have known in my time as a nursing assistant. (I haven't decided if I want to go to college for mortuary science or palliative care nursing yet.)**

**Again, thanks so much for your support! I would love to hear more from you! Have a good weekend, and happy Easter!**

**~ Silent-Protagonist**

()()()

_Six months ago._

"One hundred and twenty thousand dollars." The loan executive's voice was a taut drone, and the dull tone pierced Kyle's heart. The ceiling fan above the desk in the small, cramped office became a soundless whir, drowned out by the pounding in Kyle's chest. He was still wearing a stethoscope around his neck—he'd run here amid the lunch rush from Boston General just down the street. Regardless, it had taken him ten minutes to get here from a block away by foot. If there was one thing Kyle could never get used to, it was the massive throngs of milling people in large cities. He hated the rumor mill and the endless space at home, but he was a bit lonely in Boston. Maybe he wasn't a big city doctor.

Maybe he wasn't, but he was trying to be.

"What?" Kyle gasped, his throat constricting. He wanted to bend himself over the chair and thrust until he cleared his airway of whatever invisible object was choking him. Actually, he knew it was the lump sum that had taken his breath so violently. _A hundred and twenty… thousand?_

The loan executive peered up at him from beneath her bifocals, her pursed, beak-shaped lips moving jadedly. Kyle worried for a moment if she could hear his heartbeat from his stethoscope. "That's how much you owe our private company in student loans for your eight-year doctorate, Doctor Broflovski," she said. "It's common to see debt this high from young physicians, but we need some kind of reassurance that you'll even pay." She scribbled something on a piece of paper, seemingly displeased by Kyle's gawking. "The promissory note you filled out prior to entering university has been lost by the system, so there is no longer any legal document binding you to your debt. Technically, Doctor, your debt is illegal."

Kyle's mouth went dry instantly. The financial terms swam around in his head like a school of incompetent fish, trying desperately to connect information from one synapse to another. His father was a lawyer—why hadn't he studied any of this? He was twenty-seven years old, and yet he had the monetary comprehension of a sixth grader, regardless of the fact that he'd been handling his own budget since he'd started college. "I swear, my father signed it when I was a freshman," he said hurriedly. "I was still a dependent back then. I had no legal ability to—"

"Then contact your father, Doctor Broflovski," the loan executive deadpanned, unsympathetic. For some reason, Kyle couldn't stop staring at the wart on the end of her hooked nose. It made him sick, as was what he was anticipating she would say. "We either need a copy of your promissory note with your promise to start submitting payments, or you'll be sent to prison for defaulting on your loan."

"What—no! You can't do that!" Kyle snapped. "For God's sake, I was a minor! I was only seventeen when I began getting my medical degree! Harvard wasn't cheap! I don't even know if my father kept a copy! Please, I-"

The loan executive's glare was steely cold. Kyle felt frozen with fear. He was a mouse trapped in a snake's paralyzing path. He had wanted to become a doctor, and now he was being severely punished for pursuing his dreams. "You aren't a minor anymore, Doctor," she snarled. "You have been of complete independence since your twenty-fifth birthday. If your father cannot procure a copy of the note, you have one year to pay at least half of your loan back or risk incarceration."

Kyle was a resident intern at Boston General, and he hadn't even made sixty thousand dollars since graduation last fall. New doctors were notorious for being paid peanuts, even in metropolitan areas, and he knew for a fact he wouldn't be able to make enough to pay back even half the amount until he had completed his residency. His father was old—he was keeping documents less and less. He had retired last year from being a lawyer, as his and Sheila's income had made them comfortable. Even though Kyle was middle class and his grades were stellar enough in high school to land him a reserved seat at Harvard medical school, he'd received no scholarships, sans a small one for his Jewish faith. He borrowed nearly every cent he paid Harvard in tuition and fees, and worked off the rest in a work-study program.

Unless he could pull something out of his ass, Kyle knew he was doomed. Doomed to failure; doomed to no longer be the big city doctor he'd always wanted to be. _I knew I should've listened to Dad when he told me not to take out loans with a privately-owned firm, _he thought bitterly. Hindsight was always clear. Goddamn, he really should have been a nurse.

"However," the loan executive said, and a ray of sunshine uplifted Kyle and he raised his head from its cradled position in his forlorn hands. "There is another way. Did you specialize in medical school? What are you a doctor of?"

"Oh," Kyle said. "I was in general practice."

The loan executive clicked her tongue. "A dime a dozen," she said, "but I suppose there's always a place. Our firm is a partner with a travelling medical agency that posts doctors and nurses in underserved areas to meet the medical needs of the local population. It just so happens a place opened up somewhere in the Midwest. A hospice company is in need of a physician to see patients." Opening up a center drawer, she rifled about in search of something. Kyle leaned over and saw her oakwood desk was very cluttered with papers, staplers, and pens on the inside. She seemed very orderly, as nothing but a desk calendar and a lamp with a crack in the stand sat on the surface.

"Ah, here it is," she said, removing a yellow slip of paper from the maelstrom. "The hospice is Hospice of the Range, and it's based out of Hells Pass Hospital in South Park, Colorado. Their sole physician quit last month. They've been searching for a replacement without much luck."

_South Park._ Kyle became queasy at the thought of the snowy mountain town he'd grown up in, with its bland people and mysterious events. He could only remember truly liking his two childhood friends Stan and Kenny; not even his own parents tickled his fancy. They were constantly fixated either on their careers or too much on him. When he'd gone to Boston, he was adamant that he would never return there. Too many memories. Too much idiocy.

_Too much fire, and not enough snow._ Kyle felt sick again at that thought.

The loan executive ignored his silence and continued, as if stuck on a broken record, jumping its scratch. "If you take this offer and work at this hospice for one year, half of your debt will be forgiven. Of course, you will still have to pay the other half eventually, but you will be exempt from all penalties after that point. You have until retirement to pay back the remaining sixty thousand." She placed the paper on the desk and slid it across to Kyle, tapping her manicured fingernails on it expectantly. "I'm assuming your answer will be yes, seeing as you have no other alternative."

Yes, he had no other alternative, but _God no I do not want to do this, _he cried mentally. He had wanted to leave everybody behind in that dreary, heartless place, and instead, that was exactly where he was returning. And in hospice, no less! He wouldn't have minded opening his own practice and assisting the town as a family practitioner, but he had to call on the dying—hospice care was reserved for terminally ill patients who had a prognosis of less than six months. He had spent some time shadowing in a hospice in west Boston as a part of his medical training, but he'd hated it. There was a lingering scent of fatalism everywhere he walked, clinging from the staff to the family to the patients. People died both without any preamble and with far too much. There was no telling who would improve or who would suddenly deteriorate. Christ, he could handle acute emergency care better than hospice. There might have been more blood, but less emotional baggage. Hospice seemed to take forever. Kyle didn't know if he was ready for that.

But… then again, he was one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in debt.

And he had to escape his mistakes somehow.

"Yes," he responded after a prolonged pause. "You're right. I'll do it. I'll take the position."

()()()

_He was seventeen, and somehow, he couldn't forget it. He couldn't erase the way the flames jumped at the sky, licking the shimmering stars with the patience of a child out of his mind. He couldn't delete the screams from his memory. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't wash away the eternal stench of death and ash from his skin. _

_Within the last six months, Kyle wished he could be more like Stan. _

_He wished he had some way to forget. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow, long chapter. I actually wrote this on my flights to and from Cleveland, so I didn't stay away from this, even on my vacation. I had too many ideas to jot down.  
**

**I also shadowed in a funeral home during my sophomore and junior years of high school, so I have a decent knowledge of the funeral industry as well. I thought it was something I wanted to do back then, and though I've since changed my mind, it was a fantastic learning experience.**

**PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE leave a review! The feedback is always super helpful! I know there are a few bits of foreshadowing in this chapter that are vague, but they will be clarified later in the story. **

**Thank you so much! Please enjoy this next installment of Big Blue Eyes!**

**~ Silent-Protagonist**

()()()

_Not long ago._

Kenny was now the owner and proprietor of the McCormick Funeral Home (formerly the less personal South Park Area Funeral Home) and, as Kyle observed as he entered the mortuary from the front door, he had made a fair living out of it. The dank scent of death masked by flowery perfume hung in the air, with a discernible brush of snickerdoodles—Kenny's favorite cookie—lingering quietly as an afterthought. But the front lobby was lavishly furnished with elaborately carved coffee tables, ornate carpeting, and gleaming brown leather couches, their cushions roomy and comfortable. Kyle was so exhausted from his visit with Stan that he wanted to sink into one and disappear endlessly. He feared the minute he closed his eyes, he would drift away and never wake up.

Fortunately, Kenny heart the chiming of the bell signaling Kyle's entrance from a hidden back room, as he emerged not two minutes after Kyle had set foot inside the decorative parlor. "Com-ing!" Kenny called in a warm, sing-song-y voice as he swung through a small door leading away from the lounge. A white apron with a rainbow of unidentifiable splotches was tied around his neck and waist, covering the black suit and red tie that he was wearing underneath. His blue eyes gleamed with curiosity and interest, alive with the energy and consciousness Stan lacked. It hurt Kyle, in a way, to see the same dull color in his friend be vibrant in another.

"I'm sorry, it's past closing hours," Kenny said, his eyes skirting over Kyle, not registering the identity of his old comrade. "I could've sworn I locked that-" When his gaze met Kyle and absorbed his figure-green scrubs, white lab coat, weathered sneakers, and rolling bag-Kenny's friendly but businesslike facade cracked into a wide, excited smile. "Dude, Kyle!" He cried, rushing forward and throwing his arms around the doctor. "It's been ages!"

Kyle halfheartedly embraced him in return, nearly gagging at the musk that clung to Kenny. "You reek like death and formaldehyde," he observed. "Let me go."

Chuckling, Kenny stepped away. "You smell like old people and medicine," he retorted. "I can't believe I didn't recognize that shock of red hair at first. I guess it's been a long day. Two funerals and three cremations, and it's barely past six in the evening." He scanned Kyle's attire. "Didn't flunk out of Harvard med, I see."

Kyle rolled his eyes and smirked. He'd never been very close to Kenny, but they had grown up together, and Kyle considered that enough to warrant a visit. "Of course not," he scoffed. "I'm surprised you even went to college, man." Playful bullying had been a part of his, Kenny's, and Stan's relationship since youth. They teased each other as young men were wont to do, and it never really bothered any of them.

"First in the McCormick family to graduate!" Kenny cheered, lifting his hand for a high-five. Kyle gave him a light smack on the hand, still not able to look too long at his wild blond hair and iridescent indigo eyes. "I'm making more than all of them combined. And I'm doing it honestly, too. Can't say my parents were that proud, but at least I am. They're all assholes, anyway."

"It's a fitting profession for you," Kyle stated. "After all the near-death experiences you had as a kid." Kenny had come from a broken home and suffered radically through poverty during most of his childhood and adolescence, plagued with abusive, drug-addled parents and violent sibling rivalry as the middle child. He was troublesome as well-getting caught selling meth on behalf of his family, stealing cheap porn magazines, and catching probably every STD known to man (as Kyle investigated as a lame university project halfway through his masters' degree). So it was a surprise to everyone in the community when Kenny McCormick suddenly cleaned up his act during his last two years of high school, achieved above-average grades, and ended up going to mortuary school north of Denver. He came home to South Park and inherited the local funeral home from the crotchety old fogey that last owned it, and he was making a decent living off it.

If no one else, at least Kyle was happy for him. Kenny was proof that obstacles could be overcome. Despite his prestigious education, Kyle wasn't quite sure if he could say the same for himself.

Kenny gestured to the door he had emerged from. "Hey, come on back and we'll catch up," he said. "I'm embalming a body right now, and I've got to get it done before the end of the night. It's a four-pointer so far, so it'll take me a while."

What's a four-pointer? Kyle wondered, but the immediate thought of a body made him grimace. He'd had plenty of nightmares from cadavers in medical school-gray-faced and stiff with skin as tough as an elephant's. Dead bodies disgusted him. "Uh, I don't think that's allowed," he said. "You know. Confidentiality and HIPAA and all that."

Kenny frowned. "Dude, you're a doctor," he pointed out. "It's fine. Why are you so white?"

"Probably just tired," Kyle lied. "Long day at hospice."

"Well, they're almost dead, then," Kenny shrugged. He pivoted on his heel and made haste to the door, glancing over his shoulder to see if Kyle was following. "You coming?"

Reluctantly, Kyle left his bag by the front entrance and trailed Kenny down a short hallway and into a cramped room that closely resembled a hospital's surgery wing that Kyle had seen countless times. A blinding fluorescent light illuminated the sterile floors, walls, and cabinets that held a variety of instruments similar to those Kyle had seen and used before in his own career. The only striking difference was a plastic table in the very center of the room, the curled form of a drastically overweight woman lying upon it. Two incisions were prominent on either side of her neck and on the inside of both elbows, her arms supine to the ceiling. A hose with a steady stream of water poured from beside her, a urinal-like contraption at the end of the table catching the overflow. Kyle was quick to avert his gaze.

"Keeled over from congestive heart failure," Kenny said, speaking of the deceased woman on his table. He snapped on a pair of gloves and handed Kyle some as well to participate, but he declined. "Growing up malnourished, I can't really fathom clogged arteries. You sure you don't want to pal around?"

"I'm good," Kyle said, glad he hadn't gotten around to eating dinner yet.

Kenny went back over to the table and set back to work washing and pumping fluid through the body. "So tell me, Dr. Hoity-Toity," he began, "how did you end up back here when you swore you'd never set foot in this place ever again?"

"Student loans," Kyle reported. "I'm with a company that sends me to underserved areas to work so I can pay them off. Apparently, South Park was one of them."

"Sucks to suck," Kenny snickered. "I was poor enough that I went to school for free."

"You went to community college," Kyle said begrudgingly. "I went to a school that cost nearly eighty grand per year."

"Your problem," Kenny responded blandly, and Kyle realized he was right. He probably could have gone to Denver and gotten an equally airtight medical degree at an equally accredited institution, but of course, his parents had emphatically stressed that no son of theirs was going to settle for a state college. He worried a bit for his adopted brother Ike's future, but he supposed that was out of his control.

Kenny had a point-he could have prevented his student debt and his current mediocre position for the sake of repaying it. He could have rejected his parents' insistence and gone on his own path. He could have.

Then again, he feared what would have come of Stan if he hadn't.

"A few people have contacted me, wondering what the hell happened to you," Kenny said, disrupting Kyle's tranquil mulling as he procured some soap from an apron pocket and started fiercely scrubbing the body. "Craig, for one. He and Tweekers ended up in Los Angeles with a tattoo parlor. I can imagine Craig doing something like that, but Tweek? How the hell did he end up pricking people's skin for a living? I'd guess the mere sight of a needle makes him nervous, but clearly not."

"Who knows?" Kyle said hollowly, though he was almost certain that Tweek Tweak had followed the path for Craig, not himself. The two had become nearly inseparable during high school—likely due to their poor home lives—and though they never became public with their relationship, everyone was sure there was something other than diligent friendship present between them. Craig's aloof, antisocial personality complimented Tweek's constant nervousness quite well, and they offset one another when one got out of hand. Kyle wasn't surprised. If he'd known Stan was so sick before going to medical school, he would've had a reason for pursuing his field.

"Cartman, too," Kenny said, causing Kyle to flinch, a knee-jerk reaction that he'd developed to hearing his old nemesis's name. Kenny glanced up to see his displeasure and laughed. "That little shit wants to be president, you know? He told me when he called last week." Venturing over to a set of cabinets to retrieve heavy string and large sewing needle, Kenny snorted once. "He shut up that shtick when I made fun of him for working in a dead-end desk job."

Kyle paled to imagine a country run by the egotistical bully that was Eric Cartman. Majoring in political science was not one of Cartman's brightest ideas, as he only had so much charisma and influence outside of South Park. "It's a relief to know he isn't actually achieving that right now," Kyle said. "I'd hope he'd be assassinated halfway through his first term."

"Earlier than than." Kenny looped the string through the eye of the needle and began stitching the left neck incision with surgical precision. "Haven't heard anything from Stan, though, but I assume you've kept up with him?" Kyle barely heard him voice that as a question, and only when his curious blue state met his did he realize what Kenny was asking.

The aroma of embalming fluid seemed much more powerful all of a sudden, and it burned the inside of Kyle's nose like bleach. "W-What do you mean, you assume I've kept up with him?" He stammered. He was wary to answer Kenny's inquiry; he was not only prohibited from disclosing information about his patients, but he was almost afraid to admit it out loud, even though he'd been Stan's caregiver for the last six months.

_He's-_

"I mean, you've always been butt buddies." Kenny interrupted Kyle's thoughts once more, and Kyle cursed himself for thinking so heavily. "You two are total fags. Not that that's a bad thing, I mean. Everyone just figured you were gay for each other since birth, and the Wendy thing was a cover-up." Kenny finished the stitch and moved to the other side of the corpse to continue his work. "I was hoping you two kept in touch, being best homos and everything, and Stan went to college after-"

"Stan's dying," Kyle blurted before he could control himself. "Kenny, Stan's living here. In the nursing home. He'll die any day now. It's just a matter of time."

Silence. Kenny's grip on his sewing needle slackened and the metal instrument clattered lightly to the ground, the attached string falling with it like a thin waterfall. Kenny gaped up at Kyle with utter disbelief, as if death were a completely new concept to this funeral director. Kyle anticipated a slew of rushed questions, but instead, Kenny threw back his head and barked out a forced but convincingly hearty laugh. Blinking, Kyle gawked at Kenny's odd response as the blond wiped tears of mirth away from his cheeks.

"Ha! Ha ha! Good one, dude!" He chortled. "You really got me. I almost bought that for a second. Seriously, though. What's Stan doing with himself these days? You don't have to be an asshole."

It was Kyle's grim scowl that diminished Kenny's cheerful grin. "I'm not kidding," the doctor affirmed softly. "Go to the nursing home if you don't believe me. You won't like what you see." Kyle met Kenny's eyes again and was instantly reminded of Stan and flickered his gaze to the wall to the right of Kenny's cheek. "I'm his doctor. I'm the only one he's got left."

Kyle gathered the courage to look at Kenny's face again, whose handsome features were drained of all color, resembling the body on the table before him. "Shit," he swore, strangely gentle. "Fuck." Kenny bent over and picked up the sewing needle and tossed it bitterly on the cadaver. "Why the fuck didn't I know this? I've been there to pick up bodies for months now. I'm such a dumbass."

"I'm sorry," Kyle apologized. He wasn't sure what for. I'm sorry. He sounded seventeen again. The temperature in the already frigid room seemed even colder.

"What does he have?" Kenny demanded to know.

"Kenny, you should be aware that I can't tell you," Kyle said. "I'm his doctor. I have to keep his condition secret for his dignity."

"That's fucking bullshit, and you know it," Kenny snapped. "Who's going to hear us, congestive heart failure woman? She's mega dead. Stan is my friend, for Chrissake. Please, Kyle."

Anything regarding Stan made Kyle crack too easily, and coupled win Kenny's pleading, Kyle breached professional behavior for the second time that day. "Parkinson's and Alzheimer's," he sighed.

Kenny frowned deepy. "Alzheimer's? What the hell? Stan isn't even thirty. What's he doing with that?"

"It's possibly genetic," Kyle said. "Or a result of—"

"The accident?" Kenny finished the sentence Kyle was afraid to complete. In a flash of internal flame, Kyle could almost smell the smoke and taste the ash as if he were a senior in high school once more. It had happened so long ago, and he knew Stan had repressed his memories of the incident. But though he sustained no personal casualties, Kyle had done his best to forget.

But he couldn't. He could never forget. It haunted him every day, and he would die with it draped over his shoulders and whispering in his ear.

"This isn't the best place to discuss this. Let's go into the living room," Kenny suggested, untying his apron and hanging it on a series of pegs by the door. When Kyle slid a glance at the unfinished embalming job and raised a finger to protest, Kenny waved his concern away. "I don't have to finish her just yet. I have some time to talk about my friend's health."

The pair settled into the homely, lavish lounge room up front where Kyle's bag sat unattended. Kenny took one of the chairs and Kyle, thankfully, found himself sinking into the massive cushions of the couch he reveled in earlier. He was right—it was more comfortable than he could have imagined. Kenny crossed his legs and folded his hands over his knee in a very offhanded but nevertheless curt position, his gold cuff links gleaming in the wan light the nearby table lamp exuded. Kyle recognized this as the sitting stance of many white-collar trade professionals he'd met over the years, and it found it bizarre that Kenny was now one of them.

In spite of the grave air about them, Kyle couldn't help but smile. "It's weird to see you in a three-piece suit," he said, his voice so empty he could hear it echo.

"I've always expected to see you in a lab coat," Kenny rejoindered. For a moment, he returned Kyle's expression, but both faces soon fell.

"Kyle, how long does he have?" Kenny whispered.

"I… we can't know for sure," Kyle answered. "He's been in hospice care for the last six months, which is a typical duration, but he may hang on beyond that. I can't be certain. He's declined steadily. He used to have an apartment by our old elementary school, but he was admitted to the nursing home about three months ago." Kyle remembered that day with dourness. Stan had pleaded in a moment of lucidity with Kyle to let him keep his home and not surrender to skilled nursing—giving up, in Stan's eyes. Then, his distress dissolved in an instant as he studied the movers milling about, packing boxes, and then turned to Kyle and happily offered his "new guest" a cup of coffee. His hands were already gnarled by then, so he couldn't even brew some anymore.

Kenny swallowed. "Kyle, I'm too busy to take time to see anyone privately… outside of work, anyhow. I want to pay him a visit, but I'm not like you. I don't know if I'd be able to handle seeing him. What is he like now?"

Kyle's throat was closed. He couldn't even breathe properly. "He's… he's bedridden. The Parkinson's rigor has ruined his limbs. He doesn't recognize anyone." _I don't even know if he recognizes me anymore._ Something inside Kyle wanted to hold steadfast to the hope that he did—that the small gleams of joy or interest in his friend's eyes were of genuine understanding. He swore they were. He would swear until his friend was nothing more than a wounded, gaping shell.

_Why do I feel like this is all my fault?_

"I promise you, if he has as little time as you say, I'll do my best to take care of all his final arrangements," Kenny reassured. "As long as a family member of his comes to me, I can—"

"Kenny, he doesn't have any family," Kyle snapped, inadvertently angry. "Shelly hasn't contacted him since she went off to university, and his parents… you know what happened to his parents." Kyle didn't want to talk anymore. He felt like an infant with his reticence and displaced rage.

Kenny assessed him coolly. He was accustomed to outbursts from the bereaved, even the loved ones of people who hadn't passed yet. "We both know what happened to them," he said, "but Kyle, you need to let that go."

"Shut up." Kyle was rigid, his voice stony.

"You have to realize that it wasn't your fault."

"Shut. Up." He was seventeen again. Kyle bit his lip. "Please, Kenny. Stop it."

Kenny sighed. There was no getting through to his friend. The repressed memories were too much—memories that were surfacing now that Stan approached the end of his life. Kenny saw that trauma was common among those close to the dying and deceased—he'd studied that briefly in his psychology courses. "Does Stan have any last wishes?" he asked. "Any that you knew of previously, of course. I'll see that they're carried out."

"Last wishes?" Kyle repeated, a scratch on a compact disk. "Last wishes." The unpleasant memories of a decade ago, engulfed in heat and shrieking, was replaced with the more recent solemn ticking of the cuckoo clock that used to be in Stan's apartment. He was sitting adjacent to his best friend, Stan's quivering hands encompassing his. Holding Kyle's fingers in his weak, shaky grip, Stan looked at him with those big blue eyes and spoke to him meaningfully, his words made solid by the sound of passing time behind them.

_Tick. Tock. _One second closer to the end.

_Kyle, I need to tell you something. _

"I…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry, this update is kind of late. I'm a douche. Also, I changed the scene separation from ()()() to the traditional line. Sorry if that trips anyone up. I'll be doing that to the older chapters here soon.  
**

**Hey guys, good news! I've confirmed my enrollment to Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, OH! I'll be studying nursing with a concentration in oncology and palliative care! I'm super excited about going to school now! Hopefully, I won't be like Stan and fuck up massively (minor spoiler for this chapter; eh, who cares).**

**I want to thank everyone that has reviewed and favorited so far! Please keep it coming! I absolutely love hearing from all of you! I don't usually pick people out in the author's notes-I'm not really one to play favorites-but I have read every single review to this story. Feedback makes my day and encourages me to continue this to the best of my ability. **

**I do hope to have some free time soon, so I'll do my best to keep this coming! Thank you so much for your kindness!**

**~ Silent-Protagonist**

* * *

_Every night since he left South Park, he dreamt about it. The knee-deep snow, rooting him in place and seeping into his pants and scorching his skin, the shocking cold forcing him to stay locked on the tumultuous scene before him. Flames jumped to the sky, blinding the stars and shoving them into an eternal backdrop. In his slumber, there were no stars. They were utterly swallowed by the hungry fire and bleeding white against the cinerous navy night. The forest-colored walls crumbled into dry dust, watering his eyes, blurring away the image before him. Each passing second was like one pound of weight on his shoulders, buckling his knees slowly and painfully. _

_But it wasn't the fire that was the straw. The voices. It was always the voices. _

_"__Let go!"_

_"__No, I can't!"_

_"__Stanley, let me go!"_

_"__I can't let go of you!"_

It's all my fault.

_Kyle fell to his knees._

* * *

_Six months ago._

Kyle hadn't talked to him in years, but strangely enough, it was Stan that was waiting for him at the airport, all thick black hair and beautiful, porcelain skin and smiling blue eyes. Even in a t-shirt and ratty maroon sweatpants with a hole on the right knee, Kyle couldn't help but think Stan was the prettiest person he'd ever seen. Maybe it was the early crow's feet gracing the corners of his round, awing orbs, or maybe it was the dimples at the corners of his slightly pink mouth. It didn't really matter what it was. Kyle just thought he was gorgeous.

"Your hair is redder than I remember it," Stan said to him brightly. He was the only person standing in the lobby of South Park's tiny airport, the other ten passengers of the small prop plane Kyle had taken from his last connection milling around them, as if the two were an island in a lonely sea. "And curlier. It looks cute. Did you dye it or some shit?"

_I'm not even cute. You're way cuter._ Kyle bit his tongue. "You're such a fag, man." Kyle did not sound nearly as happy as he truly was. He was clutching the handle of his suitcase so hard his knuckles were white and his face was hurting from his enormous grin. He placed the luggage beside him and walked up to his friend, wrapping his arms around Stan. His best friend leaned into the embrace and squeezed him back warmly, and Kyle suddenly forgot about his debt and his dreaded new position for fear of defaulting. Without ceremony, his worries disappeared into Stan's clean Irish Spring soap smell and mixed into the aroma of familiarity. Stan had used Irish Spring since high school; Kyle remembered the first few times he'd truly noticed Stan's scent, mingled mostly with sweat from the football field. As a precursor to medical school, Kyle had spent time as an athletic trainer, mending injuries and watching for concussions on the sidelines. Several times during practice, he'd watched Stan hurt himself on purpose so he could come over and talk to Kyle while he helped him.

Kyle was always scared Stan would injure himself irreversibly. He was constantly on guard for his friend.

But he never did.

"You smell good," Kyle said, feeling flush from the memories. They were slightly troublesome, but good nonetheless.

Stan laughed, his voice muffled by the edge of Kyle's sweater. His breath pressed invisible marks into Kyle's skin, heating him further. "And you call me the gay one," he chuckled. Pulling away, he placed one strapping hand on either should and stared his best friend deeply in the eyes, assessing him briefly before his expression frowned. "Have you lost weight? I mean, you were never fat or anything. But you're even bonier than you were before."

From the looks of it, Stan hadn't forgotten to work out while Kyle was gone. He was very muscular in high school, but his mass had only bulked up in the eight years of absence. Due to exhaustive clinicals and his residency, Kyle had often foregone eating and proper sleep, as most doctors in their early days were prone to do. "Med school changes a man," Kyle shrugged. "My parents and Ike were supposed to come pick me up. I remember because Ike said he was excited that he got to ditch community college to see me. How'd you hear I was coming home?" His family had never been particularly close to anybody's except Stan's, so he didn't think that word had gotten out so soon. Shelley was at college states away and hadn't contacted him in years, according to Stan.

And because of the accident, Stan didn't really have a family anymore.

_It's so cold. _

"Your parents," Stan responded, grinning. "I told them to stay home and that I'd take care of you. I want you to myself for a few hours before your obsessive Jewish family demands they greet you. If they got to you first, I'd never see you again." He leaned to Kyle's side and picked up his suitcase and hoisted it over one hulking shoulder. The flex of Stan's arm could have moved a mountain, and his sizeable veins made Kyle wish he'd had his friend to practice putting IVs into during school. Kyle was amazed that Stan was wearing a short-sleeved shirt in the perpetual chill of South Park. "I'll take this for you. I've got my hunk of crap parked out front. Let's go to Tweak Bros for coffee, then we can kick it at my pad."

Kyle chortled as he followed Stan to the front exit of the tiny regional airport. "Wow, you have your own apartment?" He jested. "Wow, incredible. You're such a responsible adult, Stan."

"I know!" Stan said cheerfully. They stepped outside, and Kyle was welcomed by a blast of freezing air and snow flurries to the face. He pulled his black overcoat around his shoulders for warmth, cursing himself for agreeing to leave a bitter climate for one that was no different. "Even though college didn't pan out for me, I think I've got it pretty nice. Yeah, I've got an apartment in low-income housing and a shit job to pay for it, but it's better than nothing." He pulled his car keys out of his pocket with his free hand and pressed a button on the fob. An old, beaten Toyota beeped at the other end of the drivearound, barely noticeable against the open gray horizon.

"Oh," Kyle said. "Yeah." About three years into college, Kyle had flown home to console Stan, who had flunked majorly out of a state school in Denver. He'd been working on an undergraduate degree in geology, following his father's path, but demonstrated his complete lack of talent in science and managed to fail everything. He'd barely passed the first two years, but the third slew him, and Stan opted not to try at getting a degree and headed back to South Park. He had an associate's to his name, but had only been able to secure a job busing tables at City Wok. As far as Kyle knew, he wasn't making any other efforts to find employment elsewhere. Stan said he was happy.

That may or may not have been a lie.

"Hell, I even have a guest bedroom," Stan continued, as if Kyle had never chimed in. "You can stay with me if you want."

Kyle blushed. He wrote it off as a reaction to the temperature. "What? Dude, I couldn't mooch off you. I'll go back to my parents while I'm working here to pay off my loans." Stan slid him a skeptical, dude-it's-fine-quit-bitching as he popped the trunk and tossed Kyle's bag inside. "Even if I could live with you, I'll need to pay you a stipend for living expenses, and pretty much everything is going towards my loan repayments. So it's fine. You don't need to offer me a place."

"All right, man, you don't have to get anal about it," Stan said. Heading around to the passenger side, Stan opened the door for Kyle and bowed, gesturing with deliberately servitude. "Your chariot awaits, my prince!" he joked, unable to stop himself for dissolving into snickers.

Kyle rolled his eyes. He pulled his green scarf slightly higher around his cheeks to hide the rosy color. "You're such a dumbass," he mumbled, sidling inside. He jerked the car door from Stan's grip and shut it himself. Smirking, Stan ambled around and got into the driver's seat.

"I'm your dumbass," Stan said, saccharine, giving Kyle a side hug.

Kyle slapped away his hand. "Don't touch me, creep," he snorted.

Sticking the keys in the ignition, Stan started the car and looked at Kyle. "So, where do you want to go?" He inquired. Kyle smiled, thinking he was still kidding around, but he made eye contact with Stan's large, inquisitively blue eyes and saw he was serious. _Didn't you just say we were going to get coffee?_ The phrase rang loudly in Kyle's ears, quarrelsome as an alarm, but Kyle shook off the misplaced dread and vocalized his question instead.

"You said in there that we were going to go to Tweak Bros and have coffee," he said. "Um, in the airport?"

Stan's brow furrowed in confusion for nary a second, but his face morphed into amused laughter. "Of course I remember! I'm just fucking with you, man." He put the car into drive and steered out of the driveway. "Geez, I can't believe you thought I wasn't playing." The smile on Stan's face appeared tight and forced, which shook Kyle to the core. Stan was not one to feign happiness. He made his displeasure known and his joy was always genuine.

_What's going on?_

For the remainder of the trip downtown, Stan didn't look at Kyle.

* * *

In the near decade that Kyle had lived apart from his childhood town, he was stunned to see that almost nothing had changed. Tom's Rhinoplasty was still there, where Stan's mom had once worked as a secretary, and City Wok was still in business—though Stan admitted that the Chinese owner was getting on in his years. The movie theater had a few patrons spilling in and out in small bursts, and the mall was fuller than ever, even in lieu of the Black Friday disaster that had occurred when they were in fourth grade. Stan even took him by their old elementary school. The flagpole was still standing, albeit slightly rusted, and Kyle was shocked to see Mr. Garrison shoveling snow out front, looking bundled up and pissed.

"It's a Saturday," Kyle said, referring to his old teacher.

"They fired the groundsman last year," Stan reported. "Mr. Garrison needed to turn a few bucks, so they're letting him clean up the walkway during the snowy season." Stan grunted and made a right turn. "Which is year-round here. The school board is a jerk-off, if you ask me."

As they pulled up to Tweak Bros—the glassy exterior freshly repainted and the windows brand-new, despite the building being nearly twenty years old—Kyle was satisfied at the state of everything. Yes, it was all the same, but at least the town wasn't shoddy or decrepit. It was all very nice, actually, and for a moment, Kyle realized he wouldn't mind being here for a couple of years. And when Stan parked the car and smiled over at him, the churning of emotions in his belly made Kyle even more certain that he shouldn't regret this decision.

The pair made their way into Tweak Bros, which was strangely empty for a Saturday afternoon. Not another soul was present in the tidy, well-organized store, sans the omniscient smell of freshly ground coffee. Kyle's mouth watered at the thought of real coffee and not the watery nonsense he ordered at Starbucks in Boston when he needed a quick fix before a shift at the hospital. If there was one positive thing about a small town, it was that nearly everything was authentic.

Mr. Tweak stood at the counter, busying himself with counting money in the register. When Stan and Kyle entered, he addressed them jovially. "Hello, welcome to Tweak Bros coffee shop," he said, overly inviting and slimy, as he'd been in their youth when they'd come to the shop in search of his son, Tweek. "Our coffee is produced locally and organically with only the best natural ingredients. What can I get for you today, boys?"

Stan clapped a hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Two large coffees, one black and one with cream and sugar," he said. Kyle's heart soared at Stan's recollection of his favorite way to drink coffee—no sweets, no frills. It had been years—he was amazed Stan even recalled such impertinent information.

"Dude, it's so sweet that you remembered I like my coffee black," Kyle gushed as Mr. Tweak prepared their cups. Stan's eyes widened curiously at his excitement, and Kyle suddenly understood what he'd said and tried to stammer out a lame attempt at correcting himself. "Uh, I mean, it's cool. Way cool. It's been eight years, you know?"

"Why would I forget the way my best friend likes his coffee?" Stan punched Kyle's shoulder playfully, ignoring the "sweet" remark. "I'll always remember what your favorites are. Like, I know your favorite color is green, like your eyes. And you really enjoy eating…" Stan whispered conspiratorially into the shell of Kyle's ear. "… _Bacon_."

"Dude! I'm Jewish!" Kyle said, affronted, regardless of the fact that it was true. When they were kids, Stan used to fry bacon for them and sneak it up to his room when they were staying at Stan's house. The two would munch on it happily and watch Terrance and Phillip on the computer in Stan's room, giggling at the immature fart jokes and licking the delicious grease off their fingers. Kyle's mouth watered yet again at the thought.

Stan poked his friend's nose. "You're so cute when you're insulted," he said.

Mr. Tweak slid their coffee across the counter and scowled. "Please stop flirting in my store," he scolded. "We have a strict no tolerance policy for public displays of affection here."

"We aren't flirting!" Kyle protested.

Stan waved him away dismissively and paid Mr. Tweak for the drinks, steering Kyle to a back corner before he could complain about Stan picking up the bill and Mr. Tweak's assumptions. They settled in a dusty, two-person table with metal twined legs and old-fashioned soda shop chairs with the heart-shaped backs, directly below a furnace vent that practically oozed summerlike warmth. Kyle moved beneath it happily, glad to finally get comfortable in a place with decent heating. Stan sat across from his friend, sipping his coffee thirstily. Kyle took a tentative drink of his, amazed at the sharp flavor of the brew. He basked momentarily in the peaceful scene—sitting with his best friend at a coffee shop, having fantastic drinks and finally having a bit of downtime from his hectic career.

He'd been through hell, but at least right now, everything was okay.

However, the calm was broken when Stan groaned loudly and placed his coffee cup on the table before cracking his knuckles and stretching his fingers, grabbing one at a time and hyper-extending them individually. Kyle glanced at him in confusion. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, man, I'm fine," Stan promised. "It's just—" _CRACK. _"—my hands are always so stiff. I guess this winter is being extra hard on my joints. Maybe I'm working out too much." Stan released his hand, and Kyle saw the digits curl up before straightening again. "Blows, man. I've used all these creams, but nothing is doing a damn thing."

"Let me see," Kyle said, holding out his hand to examine Stan's.

Stan eyeballed his friend with mock helplessness. "Ooh, is Dr. Broflovski going to hold my hand and see what's wrong with me?"

"Come on, asshole, this could be serious," Kyle snapped, grabbing his friend's hand roughly. "Just hold the fuck still and let me do some tests, okay? I actually learned stuff in medical school, I promise." Stan wiggled in his seat like a small child, beaming brightly at Kyle, wordless in his interest. His expression begged Kyle to show him his skill. Kyle rolled his eyes at his friend's quirky delight. _What a weird guy. He's always been weird. _

Kyle moved Stan's finger joints as if he were rolling a cigarette, rotating them between his thumb and forefinger, noting the unusual rigidity. He nodded at Stan. "Tell me if this hurts you."

"Nah, doesn't hurt at all," Stan said, interrupted mid-sentence when Kyle roughly released one finger, causing Stan to yelp. Kyle watched the joint recoil, as if hit by an electrical shock, and Stan winced. "Ouch, you dick!" he yelled, holding his hand to him like a puppy licking its wounds. Mr. Tweak glared at them from behind the counter for the profanity, and Kyle mouthed an apology to him before turning back to Stan.

"It's muscle rigor," he told his friend. "It's a symptom for a lot of things. You're actually right—it could be because you work out." He took a long draw from his coffee. "Sometimes, muscles become stiff because you aren't stretching them properly before exercising. You also aren't taking in enough sodium to replace your electrolytes." Kyle waggled a shaming finger at him. "Bad boy."

Stan snickered. "I'm such a naughty boy," he said. "You're talking about salts, right? I drink a lot of Gatorade, though."

"Not good enough," Kyle said. "Eat more sodium-rich foods. You'll replace them  
better that way. It happens to your larger joints, too, so be careful, all right? I don't want you hurting yourself." A flash of his friend jogging to him with a sprained ankle or cut on his calf from the field, grinning through the black tendrils plastered to his face by sweat, his football helmet in one hand, reminded Kyle of the phrase that was ever-present in his mind. _Don't hurt yourself, Stan._

Stan glanced at him. "What are the other diseases I could potentially have, just out of curiosity?" he asked.

"You could have epilepsy," Kyle started. "Do you have seizures?"

"I wouldn't remember that," Stan said.

"A fever over a hundred and four degrees?"

"I'm pretty sure I'd be half-dead, bro."

"A spinal chord injury?" Kyle said. "I'll bet you detached your own spinal chord, you insufferable asshole."

Stan stuck his tongue out. "I wouldn't be able to harass you with my fine motor skills like this," he teased. Standing, he grabbed Kyle's empty coffee cup and tossed it into a nearby trash can. "Come on, dude. Let's get out of here. I don't like the way Mr. Tweak is looking at us. I think he's going to set us on fire. I'll take you to your family."

_Set us on fire._ Kyle swallowed audibly. "Stan, don't say stuff like that," he said weakly.

Stan turned to him. "What, you don't want to see your folks?" He cackled. "I don't blame you."

"No, the setting on fire business," Kyle said. "You—"

Stan narrowed his eyes at Kyle, cutting him off. "Kyle, you know I would never say something like that," he hissed. "Not after what happened to my parents. Quit putting words into my own mouth." He shook his head. "Come on, dude. Don't say stuff like that."

Kyle's mouth felt dry all of a sudden. _Stan, what—_

Stan beckoned to him, his mood dampened, and Kyle's fear only returned when he saw what he had been ignoring all along—a slight tremor in Stan's hand, intermittent in its shaking. It appeared only when Stan raised his arm, and ceased when it was at his side.

Suddenly, Kyle was overwhelmed.

_He'd forgotten one._

* * *

_He was so glad Stan still smelled like Irish Spring. _

_It nearly deleted the scent of ash that forever clung to him. _

_Nearly. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Sinemet is an antiparkinson agent. Remember that in advance. **

**This is a short(er) chapter, but it is a heavy-hitting one! There is something surprising revealed, so I hope you go in with that suspense in mind. I plan on revealing the nature of the accident next chapter as well, so stay tuned!**

**THANK YOU SO MUCH for the reviews and the follows! It amazes me to see my email inbox so full! Please continue to give me feedback, as it will help me improve this story further as I go along. **

**Thank you again!**

**~Silent-Protagonist**

* * *

_Not long ago._

For a second, Kyle almost didn't recognize the dark, steepled hands above Stan's bed in the nursing home, the rosary dangling only a few inches above his friend's silent, unresponsive face. His patient stared up with earnest at the calm, soft face murmuring prayers above him, his big blue eyes locked on the religious visitor with a barely detectable note of interest. Kyle noticed the black creases beside the man's thick brown eyes, his loving smile consuming his entire face.

And Kyle was amazed to see that even on this dreary, rainy afternoon, Token had left the blinds open for Stan. Stan never really liked the blinds closed. He enjoyed being able to see outdoors.

Token Black glanced up at Kyle's entrance, temporarily halting his prayer. "Ah, Dr. Broflovski," he said reverentially. "I was just saying a few words for Stan. God is keeping him company in these final days." Token's voice was even deeper than it had been in their childhood. Kyle was stunned to see that even the richest young man in South Park had stayed behind—and entered seminary, by the looks of the white collar standing out against the black clothes and his charcoal skin. He bowed his head, said amens, and retracted the jade rosary beads into his breast pocket. Dipping his face down to the aweing man with his fixed starstruck gaze, Token gripped Stan's hands cordially. "We will finish our vigil in a few minutes, Stan. I need to speak with your doctor outside for a moment. We'll be right back." From where Kyle was standing, he saw that Stan was fairly more relaxed than he was normally—his limbs were still taut and drawn, but he was not quivering with a silent, unknown anxiety and everlasting doubt. He stared at Token with a gaze that seemed gracious, and Kyle couldn't help smiling at the scene.

Leaving his bag by Stan's bedside, Kyle allowed Token to lead him out to the hall. One of the lights two doors was flickering, ready to burn out. Kyle put that down in his mental notes as negligent. "How foolish," he mumbled to himself. Interestingly, Token didn't give him a second glance and instead reached out to dutifully shake his hand. Kyle took the gesture in stride, meeting Token's eyes in hesitant greeting. Like his skin, Token's eyes were a pitch, coal black, absorbing and mesmerizing. They were calm, graced heavily with wisdom, and Kyle discovered what Stan had found so pleasing about his presence.

"Kyle, wow," Token said amiably, a booming chuckle rising from the fathoms of his throat. "I'm amazed at how far you went. The teachers in high school always said you'd end up being better than the rest of us, but you really went above and beyond. How was medical school?"

"It was medical school," Kyle said hastily. He was growing sick of people posing the same question. He was here to do his job and look after his friend, not make idle chat about his rigorous Harvard degree (that may or may not have been worth it, he was now considering). Assessing Token's tall, proud stature, the ebony threads of priesthood adorning him, Kyle admitted to himself that he was impressed with his childhood acquaintance as Token was with him. "I had no idea you went to seminary. Why that?" Token was second in the class behind Kyle, so it was a bit startling to see that he hadn't pursued loftier goals.

"I was on my own," Token explained. "My parents told me I could either go to school on my own bill or inherit the family business, and I chose the former. Took a lot of work, but here I am."

"Even being rich didn't convince them to help you out, huh?" Kyle felt a bit disgruntled—the Blacks were the wealthiest family in their part of Colorado, and Token was their only son. However, they were entirely self-made due in part to Mr. Black's work as an investment banker based primarily out of Denver, and as a result, they never spoiled their son. While teaching him sufficiency and independence was a positive move, Kyle thought it was harsh to deny him even a dime to go on to university. Token seemed to have made the best of it, though—even as a kid, he was never really excited about the prospect of being rich. He never paraded it about or even made subtle hints. Token even seemed to deny his heritage almost entirely.

Token shook his head, sighing. "Not a damn thing," he said. "Forgive my language, Father."

"Are you Catholic?" Token was wearing the traditional priestly garb, so Kyle was curious.

"Episcopal," Token corrected. "I couldn't be Catholic and still marry Nicole. I settled for being a minister as a trade-up." He brightened. "But it worked out great. She and I just bought our first house last month. It's got three bedrooms, so there's plenty of room for the kids. We're both ready to get our family started."

Kyle vaguely remembered a purer, more innocent time in both their lives when he and Token were both pursuing the same beautiful girl, who had moved to South Park around the time they were ten years old. Nicole had dated Token on and off, periodically worried of criticism for being together with another black person—she confided in Kyle during middle school that her parents were encouraging her to broaden her horizons, which apparently included dating white boys. Kyle disagreed with their point of view and (even though he thought she was the more gorgeous girl in town and the sweetest—well, at least until his junior year, when his eyes wandered elsewhere) assured her that love was love, regardless of whom it was with. The two corresponded into college for about a year, but Nicole eventually dropped contact with Kyle for reasons unexplained.

_Guess she was busy getting married, _he thought with a mild pang of envy. _I'll probably never get married. _

_Even though I had a chance._

"So, kids, huh?" Kyle was amazed—he felt like they were so young. Why have a family? Why have children? It was all so strange to him. "How many do you have?

"Well, none yet," Token said sheepishly. "Nicole is six months along now. With twins! The doctor said they're both girls." The man beamed excitedly, a slight bounce in his stance. "We've been gutting one of the bedrooms in the house to get a nursery ready. I might vomit before I see another shade of pink again in my entire life." Token smiled at him. "I'm sure you'll be excited to adopt someday."

_Adopt?_ The word floated in the sea of Kyle's mind, echoing as if marooned in a canyon. "Uh," Kyle said, lost for a loop. "What do you mean, adopt?"

"Well, I'm assuming because of your sexuality, you won't want to find a woman to father your children," Token said. "I think adopting would be wonderful for you. You'd be a great father, and there are so many little ones in the world who don't have a proper parent. Adopting is such a blessed thing to do, even when not in the eyes of God."

"Token, I…" Kyle felt all of his innards simultaneously migrate to his feet. He felt weighted there, to the dirty floor of this nursing home, disgusted that he was even feeling so guilty and horrid. "I can't. I don't have a lover right now. I'm not even married. I don't want to deprive a child of two parents. I… I'll need to find someone."

Token gave him a ghost of a nod. "Ah, but I already assumed he was in that room." He jerked his head in the direction of Stan's room, the drafty, open door at the very end of this wing. Kyle still heard retching from the woman's room two doors down, and that pervaded his empty hearing, drowning out his shock at Token's intuition. He was still somewhat frustrated that he didn't remember her name. She was significant, and Kyle couldn't help thinking that he was forgetting an important player on his stage.

But right then, what was important was not the ill woman two doors down, but that fact that Token _knew_ and Kyle had never told him, nor alluded the same. Neither had Stan. Of course, Stan could not tell Token a damn thing. For the only time in the entire course of his best friend's illness, Kyle was grateful. "How… how did you know?" he asked. He wasn't going to deny it. He'd been out as gay for years—everyone was simply aware of his status, sans his family. But Token wasn't family. Token was just Token, albeit wearing a minister's dress.

"Kyle, Stan may be crippled with Parkinson's and may be so mentally destroyed that he cannot speak," Token began, "but he is the same man he has always been, even beneath that shell. The moment you walked in, he visibly relaxed. He was agitated before, and making very angry sounds at my visit. I was getting ready to leave because it was clear that I was not wanted. But the instant he heard your bag rolling down the hall, he was utterly silent and docile. Stan recognizes every sound and movement of your routine. I have been the hospice chaplain in my spare time for several years now, but this is the first time I have seen a patient nearly comatose not only with disease, but also with love."

Kyle was dumbfounded. "But… he seemed so happy with you there. I could have sworn that he was relaxed because of you, Token."

Token placed a comforting, fraternal hand on Kyle's shoulder, and Kyle felt slightly more pacific at Token's kind words and mellifluous voice. The man gazed at him with soft eyes. "Stan has loved you since we were young. I noticed it then, and I notice it now. You have an effect on him that no one else in this pithy little town could ever achieve. You are his doctor, but you are still his friend." In spite of himself, Token laughed, but Kyle could not muster the strength to do the same. "He hates the nurses here. They've come in during my visits before and he had practically swept them out with his hand. Back when he could still move somewhat, anyway. Now he just hisses at them."

"Token, I can't be with him." Kyle was frank and bitter with the truth. "Yes, I'm his friend, but here, I am his physician first. I can't confuse that. Not while I'm caring for him. I would be a failure as a doctor if I chose my love for him over the good of his last days."

Token shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "But in the end, who is going to regret that? Him? No, he won't. He is dying. Kyle, I admire your dedication to your craft. However, Stan Marsh is much more to you than your patient. You can't deny what's always been." Shoving his hands in his pocket, Token gave him the most genuine, heartwarming grin Kyle had seen in years. "I'll leave you to your duties. May God be with you, Kyle." He maneuvered around Kyle and disappeared down the poorly-lit corridor, his fine footfalls reverberating off the walls and the faces of the old and despairing, both of residents and staff members meandering down each side. Token seemed to be the only soul walking with confidence.

"And also with you," Kyle returned. But Token was long gone, and for a while, Kyle wondered if he'd even been there to begin with.

* * *

"Have they given you your Sinemet today, Stan?" Kyle didn't know why he asked his friend those questions, but Stan's gawking blue orbs reassured him nonetheless. He jotted down a few notes on the clinical section of Stan's chart and checked the MAR. "Goddammit, they didn't. Let's see what is says here. 'Patient refused.' I'll bet they tried to give you the extended release capsules. Don't they know that you have to have your pills crushed or given with pudding? I'd like to see those twits try and swallow some of the huge-ass tablets they give you."

Stan released a breath of air, and Kyle glanced over to him. He noticed his friend's oxygen canula was crooked, so he swiftly adjusted it. "Can't have you breathing improperly," Kyle said. For some reason, his voice cracked, but he ignored it. "Not after the way your pulseox dropped the other day. You've got to breathe in deeper, Stan."

For a moment, Kyle could've sworn he saw Stan's iridescent irises twitch in the other direction. Kyle scoffed. "Are you rolling your eyes at me?" Stan blinked once and gripped the washcloth in his right hand tighter. Suddenly, his fingers twitched, and with a very miscalculated, awkward lurch, Stan's drawn arm extended just barely and flung the washcloth at Kyle's face. The doctor was assaulted with the scratchy pink material, and it pooled in his lap after a split second on his face. Grabbing the towel roughly, Kyle managed to wrench it back between Stan's fingers. "And stop throwing things. How rude are you, asshole?" Stan looked fixedly at him—and with a flash of hope, Kyle wished that he would see a twinkle of mirth, or that Stan would start laughing out of nowhere, like he hadn't in three months.

_You can't deny what's always been_. It was like Token was still in the room, leaning over his shoulder, whispering those words now so deeply ingrained that Kyle feared that, unlike many things, he would never forget them. Not like how he forgot the woman's name two doors down, or how he forgot to ever rekindle contact with Nicole.

Instead, exactly how he realized now that Stan no longer smelled like Irish Spring.

_I smell ash. Even after all these years._

In a breach of professional protocol, Kyle pressed his nose into the side of Stan's face, burying his nose into his bony cheek. He reeked of sterile soap and soiled bedsheets. He didn't smell like Stan anymore. "Stan," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why I told you no. I wish I could do this all over again."

And, for a moment, Kyle was back again in Stan's apartment, the same flashback he'd had during his visit with Kenny. Stan sat across from him in a dining room chair pulled up from the table not two feet away, having given Kyle the plushiest recliner in his home. He'd told him to get comfortable, because he was about to ask him something big, and Kyle felt both churning nervousness and Christmaslike anticipation. Stan eyed him with radiating confidence, as if he already knew the answer to a question that remained unaddressed.

_"__Kyle. I don't have much time left."_

In a trice, Kyle was back in this dreary nursing home, and he met his friend's eyes, incapacitated with exactly what Token told him was always there. Alzheimer's patients understood. They never forgot the long term.

Never.

_"__Kyle, marry me."_


End file.
